jeru

In the dimly lit room, dawn seeping through,
slowly blue from black, and then hazel,
the morning leads a shift in color,
form returns to the room: a polaroid,
a trinket toy in the shape of a lion,
  a woman standing proudly,
    hidden behind the leaves and growth,
  a glass windchime inscribed with a language you can’t speak;
    the movement fills you,
      so you stay still.